


Omentiё - A Type of Heaven

by Silmanumenel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Focalised Third Person Narrator, Gen, Introspection, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6934222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmanumenel/pseuds/Silmanumenel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He can hear the sea from where he is standing in a small copse of trees, undecided whether to continue on his way. He does not know what has drawn him here, this far South, this close to the Havens, but he has been unable to resist the pull for the past several months.”</p><p>While the Third Age is coming to a close and the Ringbearers prepare to cross the seas, a wandering Elf finds himself drawn to Mithlond. There he meets someone from his past, someone very dear to him whom he thought never to see again. </p><p>A longed for reunion that might bring peace for more than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omentiё - A Type of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> The Point of View in this is quite an experiment for me because I decided to try and work with a very focalised narrator, almost like a first person narrator, but in third person. Therefore you will never actually see the character named because you wouldn’t use your own name while talking about yourself. I hope it works out and you like it.
> 
> The title is from a quote by Tryon Edwards: “Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven.”
> 
> Translations for Elvish terms and names can be found in the end notes.

He can hear the sea from where he is standing in a small copse of trees, undecided whether to continue on his way. He does not know what has drawn him here, this far South, this close to the Havens, but he has been unable to resist the pull for the past several months. It is as if an uncontrollable compulsion has made his legs move forward, a silent call tugging him to where he promised himself never to go again.

He leaves the trees behind and covers the short distance to the ocean quickly, crossing the small stretch of beach to sit down on the wet sand near the water’s edge. The sea is in constant motion, never-ending waves rolling onto the shore, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could lose himself in them. Let them carry him out, far, far away until he were swallowed. Maybe then he would finally find peace. But in this, as in so many other things, he is a coward, shying away from that last step.

For who knows what would await him on the other side? A trial most certainly, but what then? Imprisonment? Eternal damnation? The void?

Also, the small, prideful voice that even two ages of wandering have been unable to silence insists that a son of Curufinwё Fёanáro does not set his hand to his own life. Does not hasten the coming of his judgement of his own volition. 

Sometimes he hates that voice which still, after all he has been through, after all his soul-searching, his regrets, his repentance, persists he be proud of who he is. He cannot reconcile it with all the other voices constantly reminding him of his innumerable mistakes and crimes, nor with the guilt that has become his constant companion and often threatens to consume him. 

Occasionally, he is still surprised that there can be so many levels and layers to guilt. Once, in another life, he thought it to be a fairly simple and straightforward emotion. You committed a transgression and thus felt guilty for it, be it breaking your mother’s favourite vase or hurting your cousin’s feelings. He has since learned better.

There is naturally the guilt for what he has done. The kinslayings, the thought of which still always brings tears to his eyes and makes him wish to hide so deep that not even he can find himself again. The oath that continues to haunt him although there are no jewels left to recover, all the deceptions and lies, the violence he participated in – every one of his misdeeds lined up in front of him in an infinite parade.

But then there is also the guilt for what he has _not_ done. Such as not speaking up against marching on the Mouths of Sirion or attempting to prevent Tyelko and Curvo from their deeds in Nargothrond. Or such as not clobbering Nelyo over the head when he came up with that last desperate bid to steal the Silmarils, he thinks while glancing at his burned and scarred hand.

And there is guilt that runs deeper still. Guilt that attacks the very core of his being. For how can he, despite everything, still have that prideful streak running through him? How can he still love his family, his father, his brothers, after everything they – and he – have done? He truly has to be the most depraved of all Quendi to still harbour love for them. And then, in the strangest bit of irony he would laugh at if he still knew how, he also feels guilty for having such disloyal and uncharitable thoughts about them, when they have been dead for so long and have surely served their sentence by now. Even Moringotto himself was incarcerated for only three ages after all. He would like to believe that they have not been as evil as Morgoth, although there are days when he is not so sure.

A disconsolate smile flits over his face, there and gone again, and he sifts a hand slowly through the sand. Who can tell the judgement of the Valar? And who can tell what they will decide in the spur of the moment? He certainly cannot damn himself further, so he does not stop himself from thinking what has been on the edges of his mind so often already, that for all his recklessness and all his heinous misdeeds, his father was right in this. That the Valar can be erratic in their behaviour and careless in their decisions, a dangerous combination. 

He does not believe, as his father did, that they were trying to imprison them in Valinor, but he does think that they were wrong in how they spoke to his father. That they made a grave mistake and showed a lack of foresight in sending Eönwё to intercept them on the beach and urge them to turn back, before Námo pronounced his doom, when they had to have known of his father’s antagonistic and fractured relationship to the herald of Manwё. He will likely never understand why they did not decree someone such as Ilmarё or Olórin to be their messenger, of whom it was known his father bore at least a grudging respect. He does not wish to escape responsibility, time and his wanderings have taught him that they all made their decisions of their own free will and thus had to shoulder the blame for them, but he is still of the opinion that much could have been prevented if the Valar had handled proceedings differently then, which in fact appears to him to be a recurring theme to some extent.

He remembers the Drowning of Beleriand which cost so many their lives and which he lays firmly at the feet of the Valar and the army from the West that apparently did not care one whit about all those living far inland in the forests or on the plains of East Beleriand, with no chance to reach safety when the waters came.

Shaking his head to dislodge these grim thoughts unless they lead him where he does not want to go, he looks out across the sea to where he can see the lights of Mithlond glinting to his left. He still does not know why he has come here, why he was drawn here when he has shied away from any company, particularly Elven, for so long. He cannot even recall the last time he truly talked to another person, anything beyond the few words he needs when he visits one of the villages of Men in the North, when he has to beg or barter for something he cannot obtain in another way. 

The sky, the trees, the animals are his conversational partners, and he makes use of them, for all their inability to answer back, because he would never forgive himself were he to let his voice fall into disrepair. It is his one feature that he is still honestly proud of, which still gives him a small measure of joy, and he is diligent in exercising it. He sings as often as possible, while he walks or in the evenings, sitting at a little fire, or he composes, all his creations kept safe in a waterproof satchel that he carries close to his body.

He does however usually make sure there is nobody in the vicinity who might hear these compositions. They have tended towards extreme melancholia, some even verging on being macabre, ever since the War of Wrath, and furthermore his stubbornness makes him resistant to wanting to perform for an audience. It still rankles him from time to time that he is considered second best to Daeron who has perpetrated some of the most gauche, ludicrous pieces of music he has ever had the misfortune to hear. And there are moments, few and far between though they may be, when he thinks people do not deserve to hear his creations when they like and praise something as silly as Daeron’s fabled “Tale of Almskalnâ the Enchanted Nandor Queen”.

He sighs quietly, berating himself for his harsh thoughts. Daeron is long gone, even if his songs endure, and he is certain that he himself has fallen into almost total obscurity. Which is in the end perhaps for the best because he ever wanted his music to shine for itself, whereas now it would likely be regarded solely as the work of the Kinslayer. He has heard them before, when he was still wandering Beleriand with Nelyo, the whispers, the incredulous questions of how such a monster could produce such exquisite music.

As if the one had anything to do with the other. As if music were unable to transcend its creator and simply exist, unencumbered and unhindered by the person of the musician, his actions or inactions. Music purely _is_ , and if people are unable to separate it from its creator and enjoy it merely for itself, then it is perhaps truly for the better that no one remember his songs. It would break his heart to see them maligned because of him.

He shakes his head again. It would not do to become melancholy now when he still does not know why his path led him here to Mithlond. He is aware that the world was changed again a scant two years ago. He felt the tremor in the earth, in the sky, when Sauron was finally vanquished for good; he felt the shadows that had lain over Endóre for so long leave; and he felt the power of Telperinquar’s rings dissipate. Another age has ended, and he feels in his bones that the time of the Quendi is coming to a close.

Is that why he is here? Is some instinct urging him to take ship at last, to return to the lands of his birth and face his reckoning, his final judgment? 

He recoils from the thought. Despite the homesickness that occasionally overcomes him, despite that he sometimes misses his family, his friends, so much that it is a physical ache, he does not want to leave yet. He cannot quite ascertain whether it is fear that keeps him here, or stubbornness, or a belief that he still has more to learn, more penance to show. There is however the knowledge that the ship he can see lying at the quay is not for him. Whether there will ever be one for him, he does not know.

Dusk has fallen, the last rays of Arien’s lights gilding the waves. He gets up and begins pacing along the water’s edge, suddenly feeling restless. He notices that he is slowly but surely moving closer towards the harbour, but is unable to steer his feet in another direction, only managing to walk a bit further up the beach, away from the sea. Rounding one of the numerous dunes, he comes to an abrupt stop when he sees a figure, clearly Elven, on the other side, looking out at the ocean. He is about to turn back, not wanting to meet anyone, when something, he does not know what, captures his attention. Maybe it is something in the Ellon’s posture, something familiar that calls to him, and he lingers.

After a few moments the Elf turns his head slightly, and he catches a brief glimpse of the other’s profile. His breath catches in his chest. It is someone he did not believe he would see again in this life, and a stab of pain lances through his heart. He takes an involuntary step forward, a name leaving his lips on a sigh.

“Elrond.”

A jolt runs through the heretofore still figure, and then the other whirls around, shock and disbelief clearly discernible on his face when he sees him. For a moment they both stand as if frozen, then there is a cry of, “Atya,” and all of a sudden there are arms around his neck, and he is drawn into a strong, almost desperate embrace. He can do nothing but hug his former foster-son back, hardly daring to believe that what is happening is real. Perchance he has fallen asleep on the beach, and his dreaming mind, spurred on by his reminiscences, has conjured up this meeting with the source of both his greatest joy and regret. But it feels too real for a dream, too immediate and crystal-clear. Elrond is trembling in his arms, still clinging to him, while he attempts to order his tangled thoughts.

“Atya,” Elrond finally says again and steps back a bit, regarding him with large, doubting eyes, an expression he remembers so well.

He can only return the look, not knowing what to say, focused on the appellation he did not dare wish to hear again. 

“What…?” Elrond at last stammers, “How…? Is it… Is it really you? How… how did you… What are… Where…? Atya, I… I… How… I thought you were dead. There… there were rumours… occasionally. But… I couldn’t believe them, I couldn’t. I thought… but I couldn’t know… and Galadriel said… There was no word, you were simply gone, and after what happened to Nelyafinwё… And finally, I... I… Atya.”

He listens to the tumble of words in silence, feelings he has long thought dead emerging from the depths of his fёa. His hand rises of its own volition, coming to rest lightly on Elrond’s cheek, and he whispers a word he has not spoken in two ages.

“Yonya.”

The tears he has seen shimmering in Elrond’s eyes spill over at that, and it is all he can do to catch him as he pitches forward into his arms. He lowers both of them to the ground, and then merely holds Elrond as his foster-son – his son, he acknowledges to himself silently – weeps heartbreakingly. If he sheds a few tears of his own, surely no one needs be the wiser.

He does not know how long they stay thus, but at last Elrond leans back, though still staying close, and looks at him. He reaches out again, wiping off a few last, stray tears.

“Yonya,” he repeats, “I never thought to see you again.”

“Nor I,” Elrond laughs wetly. “I truly believed you dead after… after. There was no word of you. Nothing. I tried making inquiries, but it was difficult, and I didn’t want to… Atya, if I had known, I would have…”

He shakes his head. 

“No Elrond. It is well as it was. That is why I sent you away, you and Elros, so you would not be tainted by association in the end. I would not have wanted you to come looking for me, mayhap in the process destroying all I knew you could build for yourselves.”

“But Atya, not even a message. Why not later? Why not so much as one word, to let me know? When Elros… Do you know of his choice? That he chose the Gift of the Secondborn and died?”

He nods, lowering his head. He remembers hearing of it a few centuries into his wanderings in one of the little coastal villages, of Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first king of Númenorё, and his death.

“So why not then? Could you not imagine my grief, my devastation? Why not when Ereinion fell in Mordor and we lost two thirds of our army, friends, brothers? Why not when my wife sailed because I could not heal her? Why not so much as one word? Did you care so little for me after all?”

Elrond almost shouts the words at him, and they pierce his heart like a knife.

“No, no Elrond, please do not believe that. I did not think you would welcome the contact, and later I considered it best that your association to us be forgotten.”

“But you were my father. You are the only father I have ever known. Did you truly believe I would not want to hear from you, would not want to know you are still alive in this world? I loved you, Atya. I love you still, for all the pain and guilt and confusion it has brought me, and I grieved for you as I grieved for Elros. So how, how could you think I would not welcome a sign of life from you?”

He sits rooted to the spot, his son’s pain washing over him in great waves, yet another well of guilt opening up inside him as he is confronted with a new addition to his manifold mistakes. Why do even the decisions he makes with the best of intentions always result in sorrow and misery? Is that his punishment, to be the cause of heartache to the only person left he still cares about? He clenches his eyes shut, trying to order his thoughts. If nothing else, Elrond deserves an honest answer.

“Forgive me, Yonya, forgive me. I know words are insufficient, a mere apology can never be enough, but it is all I can give you. After… after I cast it… the… the Silmaril into the sea, I was insensate for a long time. I cannot tell you what exactly I did, where I wandered or even how I sustained myself, the memories are lost to me in a haze of madness. When I could at last think clearly again… Elrond, I… I wanted to die, to disappear, to have my fёa erased completely. What I felt then… Words cannot describe it.

“And I ran, from one end of Endórё to the other, trying to flee from myself, all the while knowing there was no escape. Yes, I heard about Elros’s death, and I grieved for him and for you, for I knew what it would do to you. And I did briefly contemplate sending you a message, as I had by that time at least resigned myself to my fate of continuing to live, to whatever end. But ultimately I decided not to do it. I do not think I can even give you a fully coherent answer as to why.

“I want to say I did it for your sake, that I wanted you to live your life free from the ghosts of the past, without the sons of Fёanáro hounding your every step. And it would be true, that was my reasoning, but only later on. Not at that point. I was ashamed, Elrond. I was scared and angry and desperate and raging and drowning in guilt. So I did nothing. And then, when I had at last come to tentative terms with the most grievous of my crimes, I felt that it was too late. I heard that you had founded Imladris, that you were its Lord, that you were married and had children on the way. And I did not want to disrupt that.

“I believed that you were happy now, that you had made your peace with the past and would not want to be bothered by it anymore. And yes, I did not want who and what I was to harm you. But it seems to be my fate that I always harm those I love. So I beg your forgiveness, Yonya, for not being there for you when you needed me, though I little deserve it.”

He finishes, meeting Elrond’s gaze who has not looked away from him for the entirety of his speech. His son’s eyes are glassy again, though no tears are spilling over, and after another moment Elrond scoots closer, wrapping an arm around his body and leaning his head against his shoulder.

They are silent.

He is slowly becoming accustomed to the closeness of another person – this special person – again, only now realising what he has been missing over the endless millennia. Despite the pain, it feels like a blessing

“I do forgive you, Atya,” Elrond says after another long moment. “I… I don’t think I can even begin to imagine what you went through. And I am beyond grateful that I get to see you again, that you are alive. Can you… will you tell me more of where you were, what you did?”

He chuckles, the sound rusty and unfamiliar to his ears.

“There is not much to tell. I have been wandering, as far as the Orocarni in the East and the lands past Far Harad in the South. I have sought to reconcile me with myself and with my deeds, and I might even have been successful in some small measure. But I cannot tell you of any great adventures, for I have ever tried to avoid the company of others. I would much rather hear about you because what I could gather were only fragments, little snippets, and those few and far between at that.”

Elrond nods, and so he is subsequently told of his son’s life. He learns of his nephew and the struggle against Sauron, of the Downfall of Númenorё and the Last Alliance, of Sauron’s renewed rise in power and of the Ring War. But even more importantly, he hears about Celebrían and Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen. He hears about trips to Lórien and picnics in the gardens and pranks and Yule festivals. The life of a family. He also hears about heartbreak, a wound that could not be healed and Elrond’s enduring grief, about a choice that will sever a daughter, a sister, from her family forever, but that promises her a love for eternity.

He listens in silence, continuing to hold Elrond when he finishes speaking, an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“And now you are sailing,” he says at last, for that can be the only reason for Elrond’s presence here, in Mithlond.

His son nods.

“Yes, it is time. The powers of the Elves are dwindling, and with Sauron defeated, my task here is fulfilled. And I’m tired, Atya. I have fought for so long, and now I don’t want to fight anymore. I feel weary, and I long for rest.”

He turns and presses a kiss to Elrond’s forehead.

“And you deserve it, Yonya. You more than anyone. You sail and be at peace and meet your Celebrían again. I am only happy that I was given the chance to see you again, for now I know that is why my feet have led me here.”

Elrond stirs against him, then lifts his head to look at him.

“Won’t you come with me, Atya? Don’t you think it is time to return?”

For a moment, an endless moment, he entertains the thought, imagines boarding the ship with Elrond, crossing the seas and stepping foot on Aman once more. But then the vision is gone again, and he shakes his head.

“No, Elrond. Forgive me, but I cannot. Perhaps you are right and it is time, but I am not ready yet. I do not know if I will ever be, although I fervently hope so, for I would wish for nothing more than to see you again and meet your family.”

He stands up then, drawing Elrond with him and clasping his shoulders.

“Do not be sad,” he says when he sees the dejected look on his son’s face, “be happy about that which will come.”

“But Atya, how can I go and not be sad when I have just found you again and now stand to lose you once more? Will you not reconsider?”

He draws Elrond into his arms and holds him tight.

“No, I will not. I think this way is best, even if such a belief has caused much pain before, as I have discovered now. But I will promise you that no matter what my ultimate decision may be, you will learn of it, so that you will not always have to wonder.”

He feels his son sigh deeply and squeeze him once before letting go and stepping back.

“If that is truly your wish, then I will not try and sway you. But I’m so glad that I could see you, that I could know you are alive. I do hope you will join us across the sea. I… I will always welcome you…”

Elrond pauses and he can see his son gathering his resolve.

“I think… I think I had best go now before I start crying again. Namáriё, Atya.”

“Namáriё, Yonya,” he replies, “Fare thee well, and may you find peace and healing in Aman.”

He kisses Elrond’s forehead again, and after another long look, his son bows deeply to him, then turns around and walks away along the beach, back towards the lights of Mithlond. He follows him with his eyes until he cannot see him anymore, then directs his gaze to the sea once more, a lone tear trailing down his cheek. 

He still does not know what the future holds for him, but for the first time in more than two ages he feels a measure of peace enter his heart. As if what he has wished for Elrond has come to him as well. Like a soft breeze it shakes loose some of the chains that have been binding him for so long and carries them away. And it kindles a new spark of hope in him, hope that he might find even greater peace in time, might attain redemption after all and be reunited with his family. 

At last, he turns his back on the ocean, a long forgotten spring in his step as he starts on a new path in his life.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A Note on names and terms:** Makalaurё uses only Quenya names or nicknames because that’s what I believe he would do. I imagine that if my brother moved to Italy and decided to be called by the Italian version of his name, I would still use “his” name, the name I grew up knowing him by, in my own thoughts, so I just think Makalaurё would do the same. That also goes for the decision to use only Quenya terms. Considering that he has been alone for so long, has had no contact with elves at all, I believe he would go back to using his mother tongue exclusively, if he ever even stopped thinking in it which I doubt.
> 
>  ** _Names in the order they appear in the story:_**  
>  _Curufinwё Fёanáro:_ Feanor  
>  _Tyelko:_ short for Tyelkormo: Celegorm  
>  _Curvo:_ short for Curufinwё: Curufin  
>  _Nelyo:_ short for Nelyafinwё: Maedhros  
>  _Almskalnâ:_ It might roughly translate as “shaded elm-tree”, and is my inexpert attempt to create a Nandorin name. I used this homepage for reference: http://folk.uib.no/hnohf/nandorin.htm  
>  _Telperinquar:_ Celebrimbor
> 
>  ** _Quenya Terms:_**  
>  _Omentiё:_ Meeting. I used this one because I couldn’t find a Quenya word for reunion.  
>  _Quendi:_ The name the Elves gave to themselves while they still lived at Cuiviénen.  
>  _Endóre:_ Middle-earth.  
>  _Atya:_ Daddy, a reduced form of Atarinya – my father.  
>  _Yonya:_ My son, a reduced form of Yondonya.  
>  _Fёa:_ Spirit, soul.  
>  _Namáriё:_ Farewell.


End file.
